


every force evolves a form

by Kleenexwoman



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: AU, Bronze Age, Gen, Warrior King/Oracle AU, canon characters turned into mythological characters, filthy henotheism, old school sword and sorcery shit, polytheism vs. monotheism, ridiculous descriptive names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5933401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We are not monsters, we're moral people<br/>And yet we have the strength to do this<br/>This is the splendor of our achievement<br/>Call in the air strike with a poison kiss</p><p>Priests and cannibals, prehistoric animals<br/>Everybody's happy as the dead come home<br/>Big black nemesis, parthenogenesis<br/>No one move a muscle as the dead come home<br/>--"Nemesis," Shriekback</p>
            </blockquote>





	every force evolves a form

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Warlord Hux and oracle/shaman/diviner slave Kylo, at http://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/1841.html?thread=2922289#cmt2922289

The barbarians are at the gates of the city, and the Warrior King watches them from the citadel of his tower. The smoke from their campfires and torches form a cloud that rolls into the city. It's oily, thick, and acrid. 

"What are they burning out there?" he asks the Oracle. The Oracle is hunched over his own fire, which is sending lazy spirals of fragrant smoke drifting through the air. "Wet leaves? Whole bantha?" 

"Their dead." The Oracle speaks in a dull, heavy tone. He's usually swathed in silks from Corella that are stitched with eldritch designs, holding court from the Warrior King's side. Tonight, there's only a black linen cloth draped around his hips to hide his dignity. His hair is wild and tangled in matted locks, instead of carefully curled and oiled. Painted, jagged lines of red and black frame his eyes, trace his nose, and surround his mouth. "They cook their dead, and eat them to gain their strength." 

"Interesting tactic," the Warrior King says, trying to keep the fear and disgust out of his voice. "Does it work?" 

"They believe it does. When they have eaten, they will attack, and they will be stronger than before." The Oracle rises and joins the Warrior King by the window. "We cannot use mere men anymore." 

"The Soldiers of the Storm have armor of bronze and hard leather. Each one of them holds a bow, spear, and sword as well as any of them. We have battle plans for any eventuality. How can we not reach victory?" 

The Orcale nods out of the window. "If victory is assured, why are the Wild Tribes still there?" 

The Warrior King peers at the distant campfires. Under the tower, he watches the sprawling city he's helped to create. Oh, the old king had secured the land and the loyalty of the farmers that worked it, promised them protection from the Wild Tribes who came to ravage the land for their mad gods. 

But it was his youngest warlord who--after the untimely death of the old man from a mysterious choking fit--had brokered a series of agreements that had made it great. The old city had been a patchwork assortment of inns and shops that centered around a monthly market, surrounded by rolling hills. The new city stretched halfway to the horizon, long roads laid out straight and regular. 

The Warrior King cursed himself for that. It would make it so much easier for the barbarians to rampage right through the city. If there was any hope of survival, he would have to change that. 

"Do you see our city standing?" he asks the Oracle. 

"For hours yet." The Oracle shakes his head. "The visions are coming slowly tonight." 

"Then speed them up. Put more of your herbs on the fire." The Warrior King moves towards the fire. "Or should I stick my head into the vapors myself?" 

"That is not how my visions work! I have told you before, and you do not understand. The herbs help me clear my mind, they do not bring the visions. I bring them forth myself." 

"They come from your Night God, Snoke, do they not?" The Warrior King points upwards, towards the hole in the ceiling he's had his servants cut out to accomodate the smoky fire of the Oracle. The stars are faint but visible through the smoke, and they shimmer blood-red. A bad sign, the Warrior King thinks. His Oracle can tell the signs by the colors of the stars--green means a good harvest, blue a flood, and violet a great miracle to happen. He doesn't need the Oracle to tell him what blood-red stars mean. 

"They come from Snoke, yes. And only I am allowed to receive them. Lest you forget that." The Oracle climbs up on the windowsill, stretching his body out. Sometimes, the man still seems like a member of the Wild Tribe he came from, like the thin and nervous boy who seemed so unafraid to be a slave, so determined to be sold to the Warrior King. "I see their shaman. He Who Walks the Sky." He sneers. "His visions come from the Sun God, Yoda. They fade in darkness." 

"Just as yours fade in light. No wonder they attack us only during the summer." The Warrior King looks at his city again. It is nearly empty, except for the cadres of guards patrolling the streets. Doors shuttered, windows closed up. "Tell me again of your gods." 

"Vader. The All-Siring, All-Killing. Born of the Earth Mother Padma, who died bearing him. He resurrected her and became her lover. Of their coupling sprang Man." 

"Your recitation is short today." 

"Time is short. I must have a vision." The Oracle goes back to the fire. "Pray to your god. If you have one." 

The Warrior King closes his eyes. He tries to remind himself that the Emperor of the Heavens sits on his throne even now, and that--unlike the squabbling and limited gods of the Wild Tribe--his eye sees all and his hand moves all. But it was hard to believe when there were never any signs. 

The Oracle sends up a wail. "Dark One, it is I, your most beloved child! I who have been sent as the instrument of destruction against those who give strength to your enemies! I, He Who Kills the Stars! Why do you not give me visions? What have I done that you are so far away?" 

The Warrior King watches as his Oracle sways back and forth, raising his arms to the heavens. The flickering fire makes his face look hollow, sharp. His eyes roll up into his head in ecstacy, his face going slack as he goes into his trance. 

* 

The hours roll by. Thick clouds of oily smoke block the stars, and the dark underbellies of the clouds flicker with dull red fire. Guards tromp in cadres through the city streets, the clanking of their armor and the thud of their boots the only sound. The Warrior King chews on dried fruit to keep his strength up. He takes a piece of dried meat and shreds it, but his stomach turns thinking of the Wild Tribes and their cannibalistic feast, and he discards the meat out the window, imagining that it will be snatched up by the cats that keep the city's rat population down. The meat has barely left the Warrior King's hand before the Oracle pushes him away from the window. 

A needle-thin dart clatters off the far side of the tower wall, falling to the floor. The Warrior King flattens himself against the stone wall, but not before the Oracle yanks a skinny, struggling thing wrapped in dirty rags onto the floor of the tower. The skinny thing kicks and shrieks, writhing in apparent agony until the Oracle slaps it across the face. Then it goes still, drawing in on itself as much as it can with the Oracle's long, bony hand wrapped around both of its wrists. 

The Warrior King hurries over and kneels down by the assassin's side. He draws his dagger and holds it to its throat, nodding at the Oracle. "Let me see its face," he says. The Oracle obediently tears off the assassin's mask to reveal the snub-nosed, drawn face of a young girl. 

"Who sent you?" barks the Warrior King. The girl just spits in his face. He wills himself not to wince. 

"She does not know your tongue. Let me." The Oracle bends down, folding in on himself like a piece of linen cloth. He presses his long, beaky nose to the girl's. The Warrior King can't help but watch the way their eyes widen at each other, the terror and wonder in the girl's face as the Oracle's madness flashes in his eyes. 

At last the Oracle speaks, his words measured and his voice low. It's in the guttural words of the Wild Tribes, the speech the Warrior King still can't understand. The girl answers him back in high, breathy tones, her chest rising and falling as she gulps out the words. At last, the Oracle seems satisfied, and he touches her on the forehead. Almost immediately, her eyes close and her head falls to the side. 

The Oracle stands and brushes the dust from his knees. "Snoke sent her to me," he says. "He sent her to test my wits and my resolve, and I have triumphed." The Warrior King can see fire reflected in his eyes. "He has given me my reward." 

"The girl?" The Warrior King stares at the assassin. "Do you wish to keep her?" 

"Perhaps. But not in the way you think, my king." The Oracle's voice is mocking. "She may be useful to us. But that is not my reward. I have your vision, and your victory is my victory." The Oracle bares his teeth. 

"Good. How can we defeat those beasts?" The Warrior King squats down next to the fire, the pungent smell of the herbs suddenly like fresh air to him. "What is our battle plan?" 

"There will be no battle, and not a single soldier of yours will lose their lives. They will not even have to pass the walls of the city." The Oracle unsheathes his own knife. Where the Warrior King's blade is a worked blade of beaten bronze, the Oracle's blade is a shiny, brittle red stone, chipped unevenly and roughly, that would easily shatter if dashed against hard dirt. But it's not meant for dirt or stone, and the Warrior King knows that. 

The Warrior King raises an eyebrow. "Will you sacrifice the girl? The Emperor of Heaven cannot eat blood. Can your god Snoke?" 

"This is not for the gods." The Oracle crouches over the girl and places the red stone dagger against his wrist. "Light in the Darkness was not here to kill you, my king. She was here to rescue me." 

"After twenty years a slave here? The Wild Tribes have passed through here before this. They must have known of you." The clouds flicker bright, and the Warrior King feels his spirits sink. "Unless...unless this is vengeance. But I thought your people drove you out for your visions, afraid." 

"My grandfather has died." The Oracle's sight is not on the girl or on the Warrior King, but on the lights in the distance. "My mother is War Queen now, as my uncle is the shaman. She Who Lies With Stars wears the braided crown." The Oracle sneers. "Do you know how she got that name? She was with child, but no man could claim it. My mother told everyone that she could give birth by starlight, and such a woman needs no man to give her children. But Snoke gave me a vision. My father was a common man like any other, although he did come from the stars and flew away. When I saw him, he was drinking like a man, and playing games like a man, and lying with another--like a man!" The Oracle spits into the fire. 

The Warrior King stares at the Oracle. "Do you mean...there are men in the stars?" His mind whirls, suddenly far beyond the city walls, beyond even the Wild Tribes and the fearsome forests that lie beyond. So much has opened up and so suddenly. If there are men in the stars, surely there are cities and Wild Tribes. Surely they can be visited. Deals brokered. Land taken. Who might rule the stars? And what might it be like to look out on them as your own? "Can you contact them? Can they help us?" 

The Oracle squeezes his eyes shut. "I do not know. If I could reach into their dreams...they would wish to speak to you. To my mother." 

"Then keep her alive." 

"I could kill her. The link between us--I can manipulate it." The Oracle presses the red blade into his wrist. "If I give my hand, Snoke will strike down my mother. He has promised me." 

"And if she dies, will the men from the stars still help us?" 

The Oracle casts down his eyes. "There will be nothing tying us. But the men from the stars may help the Wild Tribes, if my father remembers her." 

It is then that the Emperor of Heaven reaches his hand down to the Warrior King, and shows him a vision. It is of his people--the people of the city where he stands at the center--flying away, into the stars. It is a vision of his people of the city multiplying by the thousands. By more, by numbers too big to count. By as many grains of sand as there are in the desert. And the people in the stars will have ways to stretch his life out over the centuries, the man who brought his people to the stars. He can see himself at the center of a swirling cloud of stars, bright and great. 

The Warrior King closes his hand around the Oracle's wrist. "Go back to your mother, boy," he says. 

The Oracle's eyes blink rapidly, bright and darting. "You would throw me to the Wild Tribes? They will kill me!" 

"No," says the Warrior King. "Your mother will welcome you, and you will tell her that you wish her to speak with me. That I will give them anything they want. And then--" He nods at the dagger. "You will do what you need to call the men from the stars." 

"We'll lose," says the Oracle. He rises, the red blade glinting in his hand. "You'll lose all of this. Don't you understand? My mother will never let you rule her people." 

"We'll gain the sky," says the Warrior King. At the edge of the clouds, there is the faintest blue light. It is the first hint of dawn, and with it comes the cession of his Oracle's visions and his power. But the Emperor of Heaven is said to span both the day and the night, and the Warrior King's vision will not fade with the day.


End file.
